


In Life, In Death

by Piano_Padawan



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Two Gentlemen of Verona - Shakespeare
Genre: Afterlife, All first person chapters are from Mercutio's POV, Benvolio/Mercutio is the main pairing, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Dark, Dreams and Nightmares, Dysfunctional Family, Established Relationship, Ghosts, Homophobia, Horror, M/M, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Psychological Horror, Romance, Slash, Some chapters in first person, Some chapters in third person, Unhappy Spirits, based on Cyril Niccolai as Benvolio, based on John Eyzen as Mercutio, bencutio - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-11-22 03:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11371662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piano_Padawan/pseuds/Piano_Padawan
Summary: It’s been a year since Mercutio died, taking his hapless romance and unsettled tensions to the grave with him. Benvolio is still coming to terms with their fate when a sudden tragedy claims his life. He soon finds that death is not always the final conclusion. Trapped in a purgatory eerily similar to Verona and reunited with his lover, the couple must face new horrors and rekindled hatred in hopes of finding peace at last.





	1. How I Left or What I Recall of It

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not the ghost of William Shakespeare and thus, I do not own Romeo and Juliet or anything associated with it. I am also not Gérard Presgurvic and therefore lay no claim to any part of the musical adaptation (lyrics, themes, etc.) this is based on. In short, I own nothing.
> 
> This is a Bencutio fanfiction (of course) that I am also making into an RPG. Please note that ALL sections written in the first person are from Mercutio’s perspective. As far as character imagery and certain themes are concerned, this story is based on John Eyzen as Mercutio, Cyril Niccolai as Benvolio and the rest of the cast of Roméo et Juliette: Les enfants de Vérone. However, there are certain parts that adhere to the actual Shakespearean play rather than the musical. It’s kind of an amalgam of the two. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.

“Je meurs pour que tu vives, mais tu ne vivras pas. Je passe sur l’autre rive, je t’attendrai là-bas. »

\- Roméo et Juliette : Les enfants de Vérone, « La Mort de Mercutio »

I never gave much thought to the manner of my death. It wasn’t as if life was always so great that I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving it, but death wasn’t the only means of reprieve

Sleep was one way to escape, and with sleep came dreams. Good or bad, the dreams were distractions, and I was always in need of distractions. Death was a different matter entirely. As far as I knew, death banished dreams. Some people considered death a route to peace, but that only applied to good people, and from what I could surmise, the longer I lived, the deeper I sank into sin. Quite the opposite of a living saint bound for heaven.

I always dreamt of leaving Verona. Ever since my family dragged me to that wretched city, I’ve wanted to get out for one reason or another. Well, the time had come for me to get my wish, but not the way I’d hoped.

The wound itself wasn’t quite as horrific as you might think. I’d seen blood many times before, and the fact that it was my own blood only made thing’s more familiar. As for the pain, well, I was accustomed to all kinds of pain by then. This time was exceptionally harsh, probably because I knew what was happening to me, but the stinging was becoming more and more distant with every breath I took. Part of me wanted to feel the pain again in full force, no matter how agonizing it was going to be. The thought of what would happen once it stopped was far more terrifying.

I remember people telling stories of you’d see your life flash before your eyes when death came for you. Nothing like that happened to me, and I was grateful for it. Still, I was swept away by something during my final stretch. It was more like a mismatched array of thoughts than a neat summary of my life, but it was enough to make me numb to most of what was actually going on around me.

From what I was still aware of, Benvolio was half-leading, half-carrying me away from the crowd as I hurled curses against the city’s feuding households. We met Romeo as we left the open square and I came to the abrupt realization that this was my last chance to speak with him.

Yes, he’d been a fool these past few years, but that was nothing compared to how he’d stuck with me through over a decade of hard times. It wasn’t the time for jest, but being the fool that I was, I couldn’t bear any heavier words. It shouldn’t have been much of a surprise to him, since I’ve never been brave enough to deal with my troubles any other way. I teased him a little about his perpetual clumsiness, attempted to crack one last joke about how he’d finally lost all his senses, but for once in my life, I couldn’t force a laugh. A chill had come over me, a hint, perhaps, that our separation would not be as long as we anticipated.

I must have collapsed at that point. Before I could even grasp that I’d fallen, I was in Benvolio’s arms. I don’t know how far he carried me before I asked him to stop. There wasn’t any correct way to end everything we’d been through in the time I had left, but we sure as hell weren’t going to waste our farewell searching for some miracle-working doctor when we both knew it was pointless.

“Look, Benvolio,” I sounded delirious. “Life… life’s escaping. What did I tell you? It’s all the same. We all die in the dust in the end! Even the kings of the world!”

I smiled up at him and managed a laugh. Benvolio only shook his head. Grief was upon him and I immediately regretted my words. There was no use in running from the gravity of the moment. I knew that, but I still couldn’t face the fact that we were saying good-bye.

It was then that I began to consider how I would be mourned. I’d never expected to be mourned till now and wasn’t certain how to feel. It was a surreal subject and in many ways seemed more like a nightmare than a docile way to leave the world. To be mourned was to be missed by those who were forever out-of-reach. Grief could warp one’s mind. I’d seen it before. That wasn’t what I wanted for Benvolio and Romeo. They had to live and they had to relish it as we’d always done when we still believed we were the true kings of the world.

Benvolio reached down to brush my hair from my eyes. It was a common gesture of his that was usually followed by a rant on how I needed to cut my hair, tie it up or do something to keep it from growing into a bird’s nest. But this time, there was no lecture and his hand shook as it touched my skin, as if he was worried that in an instant, I’d be gone. Sometimes, we really do think alike, different as we are.

"No,” he said. “Don’t talk of dying in the dust. You could never come to that, Mercutio. You have too much life in you, even in…”

He let out a small sob and fell silent, letting the tears run. I thought back to the late nights we’d spent together, how he’d always comforted me even when I was too much of a coward to say that I needed it. I wish I could have done the same for him then, but by then, I was too far gone. I curled up against him, if only to remind him that I was still his to hold. He cradled my head and pulled me closer, muttering what sounded like a prayer.

I thought of how, after the long wait, I was leaving Verona. I was leaving Benvolio, my childhood companion, my lover and only true confidant, alone with the broken promise of more years together. I was leaving Romeo, who I’d truly come to see as my brother, amidst the scorn of his family who’d named him a traitor. I was leaving Valentine, my older brother who I still loved in spite of all the reasons I had to hate him, with a heap of unspoken words. I was leaving my family, my uncle, my cousins, my father (if he was still alive), and thus forfeiting any inane hope I had of getting back in their favor.

It wasn’t how I wanted to go, but like so many other times in my life, I didn’t have a choice. I needed some solace, something to remind me that I wasn’t alone, that I was with Benvolio till the end. It was more than I had the right to ask for.

"I love you, Mercutio,” Benvolio choked out the words. “You know, that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I gave a weak nod. “I… I love you too… Ben… Now, tell me something… something I don’t know. Something new… something funny…”

“Like a story?” Benvolio said. “I… I’m afraid I don’t know what to say. You know all the stories I’ve lived through that are worth telling because… because you were there for all the good ones.”

“Of course,” I couldn’t tell if I was only thinking the words or speaking aloud. “Like I… always say… I add… a spark… to your dull… little…”

I felt my body go limp. Benvolio’s voice had become an echo in the void, but it was still soothing.

“Wait for me,” he said.

It was the last thing I heard before I slipped away, but the words stayed with me. I now had a promise to keep, something to take with me wherever I was going.

That should have been the end for better or for worse. I fully expected it to be. But what follows death is sometimes no more predictable than the life that came before. In my case, I was sorely mistaken about the “end”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos (if you find this worthy of kudos, that is) are greatly appreciated. Constructive criticism is welcome. I will do my best to respond to any comments promptly as long as they are not spewing hate for me, my writing, this pairing or anything else.


	2. The Debt Unpaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of the third person chapters. The next chapter will be back to Mercutio's first person narrative, though I don't plan to always alternate every other chapter like this. The work as a whole will probably be around 60% first person if I can manage it.
> 
> Also, I'd like to thank everyone who left kudos and comments on this story. I really do appreciate the feedback.

_“Quel est le prix qu’on va nous payer pour sa vie ? Quel est le sort qu’on donne à ceux qui donnent la mort. »_

_\- Rom_ _é_ _o et Juliette : Les enfants de Vérone, « La Vengeance »_

 

Those who came to the scene later that day found many grim subjects for gossip. Some whispered about the shock of seeing the bodies of the victim and the killer lying so close to each other after meeting the same fate within the span of an hour. Others preferred more gruesome details and engaged in lengthy discussions of the fresh bloodstains on the cadavers.

Benvolio found it all ridiculous. He knew better than anyone how the true horror of the picture lay neither in blood nor eerie parallels. Perhaps no one else had dared to notice. After all, staring into the face of a dead man was not exactly something many hoped to experience. The image of Mercutio’s corpse would linger in his thoughts and nightmares for the rest of his life.

Mercutio had always abounded with energy. Even in the nights of decline when he was drunk or fatigued, he would propel himself onward until he nearly fainted from exhaustion, at which point Benvolio would finally catch up to his companion and haul him to bed. In sleep, Mercutio ran through his dreams, chasing or escaping fantasies only he could fully comprehend. It was as if he feared that a moment of idleness would taint his momentum.

The stillness about his corpse was unnatural, grotesque. Death, in its best forms, was given in careful doses, working quickly enough to do the job painlessly whilst giving time enough for acceptance. Mercutio had not had that privilege.

Benvolio gazed down at his lover’s face, the unseeing eyes half-open, the mouth contorted into an unfinished smile. It was the face of one who had been severed from life. With a brush of his hand, he closed Mercutio’s eyes, but the change did little. Nothing could turn the awful scene into an image of peace.

“Master Benvolio.”

The servant’s voice interrupted his thoughts. Benvolio tore his eyes from the body to face the youth whom he recognized as Balthasar. He did not know what would happen to the boy, his former master being banished from the city. The repercussions of Romeo’s fate were still unclear, but Benvolio did not have the energy to consider them now. There was no efficient way to deal with tragedy.

“Balthasar,” he said. “Do you have news from the court?”

The fatigue of his voice appalled him. He thought of how a few hours ago, he had traversed the streets, laughing at Mercutio’s teasing and antics.

“Yes,” Balthasar replied, his hesitance evident in his quavering tone. “Would you like to hear it now? Out here?”

“I would,” Benvolio said.

Balthasar frowned. His eyes drifted downward and he closed them quickly, muttering something to himself. It was only then that Benvolio realized the boy was looking at the corpse.

“The Prince has called the… dispute to a close,” Balthasar said. “Neither the Montagues nor the Capulets will be held accountable, apart from Master Romeo’s banishment. The others have… passed on today.”

 _Passed on today._ The euphemism had never bothered Benvolio before, but now, it seemed shallow and insensitive in the worst of ways. He thought to rail against it, but restrained himself.

“That’s all?” he asked. “There will be no more trials, no further punishment?”

Balthasar shook his head. Slowly, the meaning of the news began to sink in. There would be no justice. To the royal court, Mercutio was nothing but a criminal who had stirred up trouble and gotten what he deserved. The disaster concerning him and Tybalt set a brutal example for the city’s uncontrollable youths. Apparently, the Prince was content to leave it at that.

 “Did they say anything about a funeral?” Benvolio asked, ignoring the look of horror on Balthasar’s face.

“I… I think the Capulets are planning something,” Balthasar said. “They plan to bury Tybalt tomorrow in their tomb, but I don’t know much more than that…”

“I don’t give a damn what they do with Tybalt,” Benvolio spat out the name. “What about Mercutio? Why hasn’t anyone come for him?”

Balthasar winced.

“Perhaps you’d best come inside…” he said. “There are others who could explain the state of things better than me.”

“Did his uncle say nothing? Surely he said something!”

The boy hesitated, staring at him with pained eyes.

“He did say something then,” Benvolio probed. “Why can’t you tell me?”

“You’re… upset, terribly upset. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather come inside?”

“ _Tell me_.”

“They will have no funeral,” Balthasar said at last. “We may hold one for him on our own, but the Prince and his household will not. They… they’re saying it would be a disgrace.”

He flinched as though the words had struck him. Benvolio pulled Mercutio’s corpse closer, resting the limp head in his lap, a silent apology for the third outrage of the day. He was trembling with a poisonous rush of ire, one that rioted against his natural equanimity.

“Surely,” his voice was halfway between a plea for decency and a shout of rage. “Surely they would not leave him here. Surely they would want to have the body for a wake, a moment of reflection, respect, something to remember him by!”

“The Prince said to leave the body for the night,” Balthasar said. “If no one removes it by the morning, they’ll send someone for it. They mentioned a mass grave that’s about to be filled in the cemetery outside town.”

Benvolio said nothing. He had seen a mass grave once as a child, before he took on the name of “Montague”. The gaping hole had swallowed up his mother.

No one had explained the concept of death to him. Those days, no one ever bothered to explain anything to him. His mother had, in their rare moments together, given him the occasional morsel of advice. Whatever deeper lessons she may have imparted were lost in a fatal incident, involving a tavern and a stranger. Benvolio had never found further details about her death, though he now understood enough of the world to draw his own dark conclusions.

Having no knowledge of death, he had been gripped by the morbid curiosity often found in children who unwittingly lived lives meant for older souls. Graveyards were no place for children and the gravediggers had no fondness of distractions. Yet, Benvolio had managed to sneak to the outskirts of the city. Hidden within the maze of headstones, he had witnessed the burial and found sacrilege in place of ceremony.

For years afterwards, boyish fantasy led him to believe that the mass graves were the gates to the underworld.  In his dreams, demons emerged from heaps of rags and discarded cadavers. He had outgrown the nightmares, but the concept remained abhorrent.

It had been sixteen years since he had watched his mother slip into anonymity, absorbed by the vague concept of “the dead”. He had visited tried to visit her burial site a few times as an adult. There was no monument, no epitaph, nothing but an endless tangle of weeds and the dubious promise of dry bones beneath the earth.

He could not stand to let Mercutio fall that way. He could not bear the twofold loss. He could not betray the man he’d sworn (and failed) to protect to the void.

“No.”

He did not realize at first that he’d spoken aloud. Balthasar was staring at him with both horror and sympathy. Benvolio wondered if this was the descent into lunacy Mercutio had so fanatically described. In seemed probably enough with the way everything was flying out of control.

Benvolio drew in a long, shuddering breath and lifted Mercutio’s corpse from the ground. The lifeless limbs drooped towards the ground and the head lolled backward with gruesome insouciance. He began to walk down the street, back to the square where the duel had taken place. Balthasar watched him go, uncertain of whether or not to follow.

“Master Benvolio?” he called out. “Where are you going?”

“Home, I think,” Benvolio said. “But first, I must get something, if it’s still there… something of his.”

“Something of who’s?”

Benvolio indicated the corpse. Balthasar hurried along behind him. They reached the now deserted square without much difficulty and Benvolio begun his search. A glint of metal caught his eye and he found Mercutio’s rapier, lying where its owner had dropped it. It was a fine weapon and Benvolio was relieved no one had stolen it. He wondered if people thought the blade was cursed. There were always inane superstitions circulating around, distractions from real calamities.

“Can you carry that for me?” he asked, turning to Balthasar.

The boy nodded, though he looked reluctant to touch the sword. Eventually, he picked up the weapon from the ground. He eyed it nervously.

“There’s no need to be afraid of it,” Benvolio said. “That sword never drew blood apart from a few minor fights, nothing serious, nothing… fatal.”

He kept walking, this time towards the Montague manor.

“What do you…” Balthasar faltered. “What do you plan to do with the body?”

Benvolio stopped walking and closed his eyes. He had a plan, but found that he was loath to speak of it.

“I’m going to take him inside,” he said at length.

 _You know this thing isn’t him,_ he lectured himself. _Why do you still talk about it like he’s here? It’s an empty vessel, nothing more._

“I’m going to take him inside before those bastards come to toss him away somewhere,” he continued, ignoring Balthasar’s stunned gasp. There were few who would insult the ruling house in public, and Benvolio was the last person expected to rage against anything. “If they won’t have a funeral, then we’ll have one. It’s… the least I can do. It’s the least _we_ can do. He deserved so much more, but there’s nothing more that can be done.

_There’s nothing that can be done. What good is a funeral? Flowers, black veils, songs, eulogies… as if that could ever compensate for what was stolen._

“We can keep him in our house until the undertaker comes. It shouldn’t be more than a few hours. By tomorrow morning, we’ll have time to think about… about the burial.

_As if you’ll be planning anything. You don’t even have the mind to come to terms with your cousin’s banishment. You don’t even have the mind to accept that the thing you’re holding isn’t Mercutio, that you’ll never hold him again, not in this life, and maybe not the next either…_

“That’s all. I’m taking him inside before the Prince sends someone else to clear the body. That’s all he wanted, right? Someone to clear the body. Well, we can both have our way.”

With that, he continued down the path home. Balthasar shook his head (whether with pity or exasperation, Benvolio couldn’t tell) and trailed behind him. They walked in silence for the remainder of their journey.

The sun began to sink below the horizon and the streets were bathed in glowering shades of orange. The royal palace soon came into sight around the corner. Benvolio glared at the candlelit windows.

The ruling family of Verona never ceased to astound him in the worst of ways. In the year preceding the murder, Mercutio’s family had severed their ties with him in all ways but blood. Mercutio had mentioned the news with his usual evasive casualness. As usual, he’d staged everything flawlessly. He’d set the mood with a few bottles of wine and waited until he was nestled in his lover’s inebriated embrace to announce:

_“It’s official now. I’ve been cut off. Disowned. I suppose I should be happy.”_

The following interrogation reaped few answers and the conversation had ended with:

_“Look, Benvolio. I saw this coming. In the end, it’s for the better. We both ought to be happy about this. They aren’t a good bunch of people to be tangled up with. You can have me now without the extra burden. The only thing I’ve got to mourn is the gold, though I doubt I was going to get much inheritance anyway, what with Val and Paris kissing ass all the time… but I’ll figure it out._

_“Don’t tell Romeo yet. He’ll panic if you aren’t careful and I know you when you’re emotional. I’ll tell him myself. Now, I say we should enjoy our new freedom. Weren’t we going somewhere?”_

Benvolio watched the road ahead where the specter of better nights danced before him.

_Mercutio was running ahead as usual. He stopped a few times to steady himself, but somehow managed not to trip. It was a miracle considering how much he’d had to drink during the evening festivities. For a slight man, he had an incredible tolerance for alcohol, one that neither Benvolio nor Romeo could ever rival. Every now and then, he’d turn around to mock his friends about being too slow or direct a shameless innuendo at Benvolio._

They passed the front doors of the palace. Benvolio wondered if there was a single person mourning inside. He doubted it.

_Mercutio was waiting by the steps of the ornate entrance, looking at it with what he thought came across as apathy. Benvolio knew better and felt a pang of guilt. His partner had never disclosed exactly why he’d been disowned, but the young Montague was quite sure he’d had something to do with it._

_“It’s not as nice on the inside, you know,” Mercutio said._

_But you deserve a place there,_ Benvolio thought. _If you were to leave on your own accord, that would be understandable, but they had no right to throw you out, not after everything they’ve done to you._

_Mercutio didn’t give him a chance to respond and there was no getting him to further discuss a subject he’d already abandoned. He sauntered over to Benvolio, flashing that flirtatious grin he’d perfected. Evasion. All evasion._

_“Weren’t you going to take me inside?” he drawled. “You wouldn’t leave me out here in the cold, would you?”_

_“That wasn’t quite what I had in mind for this evening,” Benvolio said._

_Mercutio laughed. It was the cackle of a veritable madman. There was something oddly refreshing about the sound._

_“What did you have in mind then?” he asked._

_“You’ll see.”_

_“I think I can guess…”_

_“Good for you. Now hurry up, it’s cold out.”_

_“Yes, and your bed’s soft and warm.”_

_“Let’s get you inside.”_

He blinked. The specter disappeared leaving him with the violent heat around him and the cold, dead body in his arms.

“Let’s get you inside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the third person wasn't too draggy. I'm working on getting the next chapter out soon. Feel free to let me know what you think of it so far!


	3. My Unexpected Salvation and Defiance of My Kinsmen - Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who gave this work kudos or posted a comment. I always love to hear what people think of my writing.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the real literature mentioned in this chapter.

_« C’est comme un paradis sur terre, mais nos âmes, elles sont en enfer. »_

_\- Roméo et Juliette, Les Enfants de Vérone, « Vérone »_

 

Complete detachment. In a split second, my wits and senses were blown out like a flame. Regaining consciousness was a slow process. My thoughts were the first thing to drift back to me, followed by a sense of touch focused on a dull aching in my chest.

I expected vertical motion of some kind, a literal descent into Hell. Well, I didn’t sink, and that was something, but I didn’t go the other way either. I didn’t seem to _go_ anywhere, for that matter.

Yet, I wasn’t stagnant. There was a change within me that could only be described as freedom. I’d breathed my last on Earth and in that instant, I was liberated from bounds I’d never known existed. How long had I wanted this? My whole life? That couldn’t be right. I’d been too ignorant of my prison to desire release. Now, liberty had found me, and I was on the verge of realizing it in full.

But I didn’t get a chance. The sensation lasted no longer than a single heartbeat. The Change was gone before I could even begin to understand it. Even still, whatever it was stayed long enough to make me miss it afterwards.

No. I didn’t just miss the Change. I _yearned_ for the Change. Without it, I felt hollow, as if I’d been robbed of a vital part of myself kept secret from me till my death.

I thought idly of a book I’d owned as a child. (Well, it hadn’t actually been mine, strictly speaking. It belonged to Valentine, but at that age, I never bothered to distinguish between Val’s things and my own belongings, and he’d indulged me enough that it didn’t matter.) The book had been a worn copy of Plato’s _Republic_ , the majority of which had been beyond my reading level at the time. However, there was one story I understood well enough: The Allegory of the Cave.

I was six when I first read it and had found it boring, as I did (and still do) most philosophy. Now, I was beginning to think Plato had a point. I’d been dragged out of the cave, but not long enough to understand the sunlight. The Change had deserted me, blind and dissatisfied.

Was this my initiation into the other side? Maybe the Change was a prelude to eternal damnation, a glimpse of the reward I’d forfeited. I braced myself. The familiar voices were sneaking back to torture me.

_“You deserve this. You know you deserve this. At least, I’d like to think you intelligent enough to understand the rules… An abomination. A disgrace to your lineage and a crime against God…”_

They were my uncle’s words. It was a miracle really, my inability to recall the worst of things, that is. Even in death that hadn’t changed.

_“Sometimes I feel like they're right. You never learn. The things you do… You’ve gotten what was due. You’re old enough to realize that.”_

Valentine’s lectures echoed in my head. I cursed myself for the heartache it brought me. It was damn time I moved on from that, though I supposed it was too late for anything now.

_“Wait for me.”_

“Benvolio!”

I didn’t notice at first that I’d spoken aloud in shock. His voice lingered with me, relief from the blame and the condemnation of the other echoes. I silently rehearsed his words, fearing that I’d lose them.

I gasped. _This was not right._ It didn’t take an expert on death to know that dead people did not breathe.

No. I wasn’t _really_ breathing, at least not the way I was used to. The sensation was more like sucking air into vessels that couldn’t appreciate it, something I did out of habit rather than need. The air was bland, neither refreshing nor unpleasant.

The same instant reignited my sight and hearing. I was greeted by a blurry view of a bleak sky which appeared, at the moment, to be directly in front of me, not quite where the sky was meant to be. I sat up groggily and blinked a few times until the world came back into focus.

There were immense walls on either side of me, both too high for to look over. The ground was covered by cobblestones, the texture and size of which bore an uncanny resemblance to the streets of Verona. Wherever I was seemed to contain a great deal of stone. I didn’t particularly mind. Stone was better than flames.

A cold wind blew through the area, making me shiver. I then noticed that I was wearing the same clothing I’d had on the hour of my death, with two alterations: a multitude of deep scarlet drops and a tear in the fabric to the left of my heart. It was as if I had never left my body.

_The worms are coming_ , I mused. _At any time now, they’ll be sucking away at your flesh. Worms’ meat, remember, Mercutio? That’s what you’ve come to._

Morbid as it was, the thought amused me. I came close to laughing before I remembered there was no one to hear it. There was no point in laughing at one’s own jokes when there was no one around to listen.

It was a joke and nothing more. Whatever vessel I was confined in was not a corpse. That much I was quite sure of, though I couldn’t quite pinpoint an explanation. I traced a trembling finger across the tear in my shirt, still reluctant to believe that it was real. As I did so, the horrid spectacle played out in my thoughts once more.

_Tybalt was standing a few feet away from me, disdain and conceit wrapped up in a single smirk. We were both sweating from the intense heat, a little extra drama. The sweltering weather did seem to boost my adrenaline. Benvolio had a point after all. I anticipated a full lecture about it after the duel, a healthy dose of “I told you so”._

_He was darting around in the crowd now, shouting something at me. I caught eye contact with him just long enough for what I intended as a reassuring nod. He didn’t appear comforted by it at all, though._

_I turned my attention away from Benvolio and faced Tybalt again. Dueling was as much a social art as a physical task. Part of success was reading your opponent and adjusting your strategy with the changing mood. At least, that was how I did it. Some people preferred a simpler, guidebook-style approach. Foolish, restricted people like the dear Prince of Cats, that is._

_I was absorbed in the art of it, absorbed in the game. That was what it all came down to: another battle of wits, a challenge of agility and vigilance combined. I was too wrapped up in the idea to perceive any danger._

_I saw Romeo out of the corner of my eyes and had just enough time to wonder what exactly he thought he was doing before he was in front of me, trying to get hold of my sword by the hilt. I opened my mouth to tell him to leave us be. I had barely begun to form my words when the blade pierced my chest._

_The game was gone now, replaced by an acute throbbing and the proliferation of red. The first sign I saw were on Tybalt’s rapier. My gaze shifted down to where the blood was blooming on my shirt and followed the stray drops as they trickled down to the street. It made me think of rain and spilt wine._

The wound was no longer bleeding. All that was left was a thin scar, one that I could have easily overlooked if not for the ordeal associated with it. What had been excruciating pain had subsided to a ghostly soreness.

Everything else had left me. The heat of midday was a distant memory. The voices of the crowd, Romeo and Benvolio were like the echoes of forgotten nursery rhymes and lullabies.

I wrapped my arms around myself in hopes of preserving whatever warmth I had left within me. I’d done it now. I’d sunk back to being a helpless, whimpering child. The thought enraged me. Indeed, there were few things I hated more than reliving the past.

But before long, the anger dissipated into grief. Years ago, solitude had been a privilege and I’d lived by a simple rule: _People don’t care for you. If they’re in a good mood, they’ll leave you be. If not, they’ll hurt you. No one needs that kind of trouble._

Since then, I’d been spoiled by good company. First by Benvolio, then by Romeo. They’d made life bearable, but those times were gone. In death, solitude bore no comfort.

Fortunately, I’d had practice holding back tears and knew that the best way to prevent an outburst was through forcible distraction. There were always distractions to be found if one knew where to look. It was time to begin the search.

I stood up with a groan and stared at the path ahead. There was nothing much to look at, as everything beyond three meters was obscured by thick mist. I turned and found an identical view behind me. The choice left little room for deliberation. In the end, moving forward _sounded_ better.

I took a few, dizzying steps down the street. As far as I could tell, I could walk normally, though even the slightest movements left me feeling fatigued. I forced myself to keep going anyway.

I thought of my promise to Benvolio and wondered whether he’d really understood what he was asking. Surely, he knew I was bound for the inferno and there would be no reunion once he found his eternal paradise.

Then again, what I had seen so far didn’t match any of the classic pictures of hellfire. Well, if this was Hell, someone would need to have a word with Signor Dante Alighieri (I’d never cared for his writing anyway). If this _wasn’t_ Hell, someone would need to have a word with my uncle and the rest of my family. I considered the latter miracle as I continued towards my undetermined destination but didn’t dare hope for it to be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to get the next chapter up soon. I'm trying to improve my writing for both fan fiction and original works. If there's something you think I can do better, feel free to let me know.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Nothing but Discords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who left kudos on this work. Just a quick note on the timeline for this story: I anticipate another 2 - 3 chapters until the one-year-later point mentioned in the plot summary, but it's coming.

_« A quoi ça sert d’être sur la terre si c’est pour faire nous vies à genoux. »_

_\- Roméo et Juliette : Les enfants de Vérone, «Les Rois du Monde»_

 

Benvolio awoke from his intermittent sleep for the fourth time that night. He reached out to draw aside the curtain of his bedside window, the one Mercutio had frequented when he was desperate for an entrance. Surely, it had to be morning.

There was no such luck. The empty streets were cloaked in darkness and there was still no sign of the sun’s lazy approach. He pulled the curtain shut and rolled back onto his pillow. Morning was bound to come, hopefully sooner rather than later. Nighttime was unbearably lonely.

He glanced at the right side of the bed, where he had unconsciously allocated an empty space. There was a spare pillow and blanket (Mercutio perpetually complained of the cold, regardless of the time of year) which he had not yet removed. The situation reeked of hollow superstition, but Benvolio was too tired to care. He closed his eyes, determined to get some sleep, as unappetizing as the idea seemed.

For the first time in years, there was no one rapping at his window or jabbing him in the ribs in an attempt to keep him awake long enough for more late night gallivanting. Now _that_ was something he’d never thought he’d miss. Reflecting on this irony, he smiled a joyless smile before drifting off to sleep.

_He was ten, or perhaps younger, young enough to be amused by whatever pointless version of tag he’d gotten caught up in. The rules were simple enough. Whoever was the “guard” (or “knight” or “wolf”, depending on the theme they’d chosen) had to chase the “burglar” (or “dragon” or “sheep”) until the latter was caught or the former grew too tired to run anymore. As usual, neither Romeo nor Mercutio had wanted to be chased, and Benvolio couldn’t stand to see either of them unhappy during their playtime._

_So, Benvolio was sprinting down the streets of Verona with Mercutio closing in on him and Romeo lagging some distance behind. At least, that was how it had been a minute ago. A second backward glance showed that Mercutio had disappeared. Benvolio had just enough time to wonder where his pursuer had gone when a hand seized him by the shoulder and whipped him around._

_“Too slow again,” Mercutio proclaimed. “All Montagues are slow.”_

_“How… how did you get in front of me?” Benvolio asked._

_Mercutio paused to think, then said, “Well, let’s see. Either I sprouted wings and flew above you or I found myself a shortcut along one of the side streets. You can believe whichever one you want to.”_

_Romeo had caught up to them now. Soon, they were meandering down the streets of Verona, laughing and teasing each other. They had digressed from one trivial subject to another and for a while, nothing was amiss. Then, Benvolio noticed the bandages on Mercutio’s hands._

_He knew Mercutio wanted to ignore them, but he couldn’t help but ask. Mercutio frowned and glanced at his hands as if he had only just noticed his wounds. He murmured something about his Uncle. He didn’t need to elaborate. Benvolio already understood the situation all too well. Things had always been that way._

_“A scratch, a scratch,” Mercutio said. He was grinning once more._

_No. That was not what he was meant to say. Not now. Those words were meant for a different time, one Benvolio could pretend was nothing but fantasy._

_“It’s hot out here,” Romeo interjected. “Can we go inside?”_

_Benvolio was suddenly aware of the oppressive heat. They were all sweating from their latest game of tag. It did seem like a good idea to go inside._

_“Help me into some house,” Mercutio said._

_The words hit Benvolio with harsh discord. They did not belong here, but what then was Mercutio meant to say?_

_“Well, shall we go then?” Mercutio asked. He was still a child. They all were. Yet, there was an uncanny maturity about him that Benvolio couldn’t quite pinpoint._

_The trio was heading back up the street now, back towards the Montague manor. The journey was short, shorter than it should have been. Verona seemed to have been compressed and rearranged. The houses around them looked misplaced in this part of town. Yet another discord in the memory._

_They had barely reached the front steps when Mercutio stopped dead in his tracks. The color had drained from his face._

_“Not here,” he said._

_“What’s wrong?” Benvolio asked. “Our family doesn’t mind guests. They like you, you know?”_

_Mercutio shook his head. “No. No, Benvolio. You don’t understand. I don’t want to go in there.”_

_“There’s… nothing wrong, nothing to be afraid of.” He clasped Mercutio’s hand, which was cold in spite of the heat, and gave a gentle tug. “Come on. It’s cool inside.”_

_Mercutio eyed the entrance warily but allowed Benvolio to guide him inside anyway._

_“Promise you won’t leave me?” he asked when they reached the door._

_“Of course,” Benvolio said, unsure of why Mercutio would ask such a thing. He realized Romeo had disappeared. Perhaps he had gone inside already._

_They entered. Benvolio heard footsteps and looked up, expecting to see a servant or one of his relatives descending the stairway in the entrance hall. He saw neither a familiar face nor the entrance hall. This was not the Montague home but a solemn room that reeked with the stench of death. The footsteps were those of the undertaker. They were in a morgue._

_No. He was in a morgue. The young Mercutio was gone and Benvolio was no longer a child but a young man holding the limp body of his beloved._

Benvolio’s eyes snapped open. He felt wearier than ever now. There was someone knocking at the door. Fatigued as he was, he was grateful for any alternative to lying in bed for another hour or more, pondering the dreadful dream.

Balthasar was at the door. Judging by the way he was dressed and the absence of a candle, the night had finally passed. It was the first relief Benvolio felt in what seemed like an eon.

“Master Benvolio,” the boy said. “Did you sleep well?”

Benvolio responded with a soft chuckle. They both knew the answer to that question.

“I hope your night was better than mine,” he murmured. “Is there something you needed to tell me?”

“You have a visitor this afternoon,” Balthasar replied.

“Afternoon? What time is it?”

“A quarter to one.”

Benvolio shook his head, unable to grasp how he had managed to sleep the entire morning away and still feel so tired.

 _Perhaps I should ask him what day it is_ , he mused. _Or what year. It seems I’ve lost all sense of time._

“Who’s the visitor?” he asked. “I don’t remember planning to meet anyone today.”

 _You don’t make those sort of arrangements_ , he reminded himself. _Not when you have the rest of the trio to run wild with. Not to mention all the others. Where are they now? Inside probably, mourning. Or maybe they just want to forget about it. Doesn’t matter. The triumvirate is broken and everything’s fallen down with it._

“Signore Valentine,” Balthasar hesitated. “Mercutio’s brother.”

“What does he want?” Benvolio asked. It wasn’t a very polite way to phrase the question, especially given that Valentine was the Prince’s nephew and heir to the throne, but such petty things didn’t seem to matter anymore.

Benvolio had met Valentine on a several brief occasions, but their interactions were always limited to brief greetings and standard courtesy. He was ten years Mercutio’s senior (nine, in Benvolio’s case) and had little patience for children’s games.

When seven-year-old Mercutio first introduced Valentine to the Montague boys, all had seemed well. It was a tender moment, the way Mercutio hovered around his brother with childish adoration. In the time that followed, such moments grew increasingly rare until they disappeared altogether.

By the age of ten, Mercutio was loath to utter Valentine’s name much less explain the reason for the change. The closest he’d come to revealing anything was during a brief talk with Benvolio.

_“Benvolio, can I ask you a question? It’ll be quick.”_

There had been two early warning signs. Firstly, Mercutio rarely opted for brevity. When he did, something was clearly wrong. He’d also waited until Romeo was gone to start the conversation. The two were close. There was no doubt about that, but there were gaps in their friendship nonetheless. The image of Romeo as a cossetted child had never fully dissipated and remained strong enough to keep Mercutio from divulging darker matters.

_“Have you ever had someone lie to you?”_

_Benvolio responded in the affirmative. Of course he had. Everyone had._

_“Did you trust them?”_

_“Some of them. Why do you ask?”_

_“So you know,” Mercutio went on, ignoring the question. “You know it’s worse then. Lies don’t hurt, except…” He sniffed. He’d already raised a hand to his cheek to wipe away the tears if they dared to come. “Except when you really trust the liars. That’s when you know you’re in for it.”_

 “He mentioned something about attending his brother’s funeral,” Balthasar said, bringing Benvolio back to the present. “I don’t know anything else. He wanted to speak with you in private.”

“When did he come here?”

“Just now. He’s still downstairs in the sitting room.”

If he’d had Mercutio’s spunk, he would have refused the meeting, tagging on a few expletives to drive the point through. Instead, he gritted his teeth and said, “I’ll be down in a minute.” Relieved by this answer, Balthasar nodded and left to deliver the message.

Benvolio returned to his bedroom and stared blankly at the ceiling in hopes of clearing his head. A faceless voice in the back of his mind lectured him on how rude it was to keep people waiting, how Valentine was a respectable fellow of honorable blood and so on.

 _Honorable blood._ Benvolio nearly laughed aloud at the thought of it. _There’s no more honorable blood left in that family. Tybalt spent the last of it._

-x-X-x-

Valentine could have been waiting anywhere between fifteen minutes to an hour. Benvolio couldn’t have cared less. To his surprise, the unwanted guest didn’t seem to mind either. By the looks of him, he wasn’t in the mood to mind _anything_.

Apparently, Benvolio wasn’t the only one who’d had a bad night, unless Valentine just so happened to be born with bags under his eyes and the furrowed brow indicative of a migraine. His face was stained with the subtle marks of tearstains. They were nearly indiscernible and Benvolio would have missed them had he not been wearing his own.

“Signore Valentine,” he hesitated. “Good morning.”

_Good morning. Is that any way to greet a man who just lost his only brother? Then again, is there really a right way to do that?_

“Good morning to you,” Valentine said. He came forward to shake his host’s hand.

_Mercutio did say they look nothing alike. He was right about that, though there are a few similarities. The shade of the hair, a bit of the bone structure perhaps. Nothing beyond that though._

“I was told that you want to discuss the… the funeral,” Benvolio said at length.

“Yes,” Valentine replied. He paused for a moment and closed his eyes. “I… I would very much like to attend.”

Benvolio made no immediate reply. Any reply seemed out of place. The idea of anyone requesting permission to attend his own brother’s funeral was both absurd and pathetic.

“This was very sudden for me,” Valentine continued, “As I’m sure it was for you. I could scarcely believe the… news when I heard. I wanted to leave immediately, but my uncle, the Prince, was insistent that I stay. He didn’t want a panic.

_So you left him. You left him out to rot._

“Since then, I’ve been to the undertaker’s and… well, I’ve seen him.” He drew in a shuddering breath. “It’s all still very trying to come to terms with. I’m sure you’ve experienced similar shock.” Benvolio nodded. “But what choice do we have in the end? Denial never did anyone any good. No. It certainly did not…”

For a moment, Valentine seemed to be speaking more to himself than anyone else. His gaze wandered around the room and he grimaced as if fighting off an unwanted thought. The slip was brief, however, and his focus was soon redirected at his host.

“Mercutio is to be entombed today,” he said, “In your family’s monument if I am not mistaken.”

“Yes,” Benvolio tried to mask his anger, which had been somewhat dormant since he first heard of the outrage.

_They are the ruling house in this city whether you like it or not. It won’t do Mercutio’s memory any good if you to quarrel with them now._

“I thank you for your courtesy in this matter,” Valentine said. “The nobility of the House of Montague will not be forgotten.”

_Don’t thank me and for the love of God, don’t call it nobility. Unless we’re really so low that giving an innocent man a proper burial has become noble “courtesy”._

“It would be an _honor_ to have him rest in our monument,” Benvolio said. _Rest_. His mind caught on the word. He recalled the face of Mercutio’s cadaver and cringed.

“Indeed,” Valentine replied. “I do not wish to intrude and I do apologize for coming here unannounced, but I would like to ask two things of you now… if I may. Both for today. If my brother is to be entombed, well, I would like to be present when it happens.”

“Of course,” Benvolio said. “You… you didn’t need my permission for that.”

“Mercutio always did speak… fondly of you,” Valentine remarked with a smile. “Thank you again for your courtesy. I will see you again this afternoon then. Afterwards, if you have not made prior arrangements, I would like to meet with you again after supper for a few… technical matters. You see, when Mercutio… left our household, there were a number of belongings he didn’t take with him. I’d kept them, hoping that he’d come back.” For the second time, he seemed to forget Benvolio’s presence, but the lapse was brief. “I thought that you would be the best person to help me sort through them.”

Yes. Benvolio was the only person available for the job and thus the best by default. Still, he wasn’t at all keen on the offer. He’d never had any desire to enter the royal palace, much less now of all times.

“Tonight?” he asked. “In the palace?”

“Yes,” Valentine said. “I doubt it’ll take more than an hour. I have no intention of keeping you the whole night.”

_Oh, that would be quite alright if you did. It isn’t as if I’m going to be getting any decent sleep. The venue’s the only downside._

Despite his reservations, Benvolio didn’t have a choice. This paucity of options was getting to be a trend, and he didn’t like it one bit. The royal family did not extend invitations, they issued summons that were something disguised as casual offers. Besides, his aunt and uncle would be at his throat if he refused. It was all a matter of “courtesy” and “honor” and another slew of associated words he was starting to despise.

“I’ll be there then,” Benvolio said. “Thank you for your generous offer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is greatly appreciated. It's very helpful to hear what people think. If there's something you think I could improve, feel free to mention it.


	5. My Unexpected Salvation and Defiance of My Kinsmen – Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all who gave this story kudos. Please note that the plot summary displayed on the preview of this story will be changed soon, though the actual plot will be the same.

_«Et toi, petit, perdu. Toi, tu ne comprends plus.»_

_\- Roméo et Juliette : Les enfants de Vérone, «Duo du désespoir»_

 

I reached the dead end after what felt like an eternity of walking. It was another insurmountable wall, identical to the ones on the sides and just as dull as the rest of the world I’d come to. I stared at it, baffled and frustrated, half expecting it to move aside, revealing my real destination. Anything seemed possible now. The normalcy of life as I knew it was demolished.

There was no such miracle or witchcraft. The wall remained in place, blocking my path, mocking my illusion of progress. I turned to the direction I’d come from and wondered whether there was another dead end on that side. Maybe this was Hell: a dreary enclosure that gave the pretense of leading to somewhere.

My new path seemed longer than the first. Of course, I had no real way of telling. I’d lost track of my starting point and had no bearings for distance. It was monotony in its purest form.

I nearly cried when I saw another wall rising up in front of me before realizing that it marked an intersection. The cobblestone street diverged to the right and left. Following a brief bit of insipid deliberation, I chose the latter. I met with another blockade soon after, turned to head the other way, and reached another intersection, this one splitting the path into three different routes. Then, it clicked: I was in a labyrinth.

I’d never been overly fond of mazes. The last time I’d given one any serious thought was during a dreary afternoon with Benvolio when we were children. There’d been a break in the cobblestones by the marketplace where you could draw patterns in the exposed mud. We used to trace mazes for each other to solve. Though tedious, the game was an excuse to seek out better company than what I’d had at home.

I’d been good at it too and took some pride in my winning streaks. There was a trick I used to use, the old method of keeping one hand on the right wall. I’d learned it from my father. As was the case with anything involving my father, I’d long since forgotten the context of the memory, but that didn’t matter.

I placed one hand on the wall on my right. The stones were cool and damp like the skin of a drowned cadaver. I grimaced and forced myself to move on. I was, however, dubious of whether anything would come of my efforts. There wasn’t any way of telling if this maze even had an exit.

Hours passed. At least, it seemed like hours. My sense of time as a concrete system was already beginning to fade. I supposed that was only fitting if I was to spend an eternity here.

Hell, I’d been told, was full of all kinds of bizarre torments, perfectly tailored to the sins of the soul in question. The more I thought about it, the more everything seemed to fit. Here was an unsolvable labyrinth which taunted its prisoner with the prospect of escape. What better punishment for someone who’d had no respect for limits?

I sank to my knees, unsure of how much progress I’d made. The scenery remained unchanged: two walls on either side, a blanket of suffocating fog and the path ahead laced with false hope. All the while, the labyrinth was laughing at me. It was one of the dismally few matters I was sure of. The other was that I was too weary to continue.

I curled up against the wall, trying to fend off the ubiquitous chills, and tried to will myself into a dream. If this was Hell, I imagined there would be none. Dreams, useless as they were, gave the illusion of sanctuary. Sometimes, that was all you needed.

The prospect of dreams was enough to lull me to sleep.

-x-X-x-

I was jolted awake by the terrible sense of being watched. I scanned the grey landscape, searching for whatever demon had come to drag me down ( _“You were whining about the cold. Come with me. It’s nice and hot down here”_ ). That was when I saw her.

She was standing on the other side of the street, a tall figure clothed in tattered, white garments which seemed to project a spectral glow. Her hair fell down to her waist in a dark braid. I caught a glimpse of her face but could not look upon it for long. There was something maddening about her eyes, something familiar.

We’d met before, though I hadn’t seen her then. Perhaps she’d had me marked out from the time Tybalt and I drew out swords, or earlier than that. Perhaps she’d been there at my birth and had set at the moment the point of her return twenty years later, the day the blade would pierce my heart.

Death swept across the path and stood over me. I couldn’t have run from her. I was petrified with fearful fascination. Had I been alive, I would have felt nothing but sheer terror. As it was, we’d already had our moment. Tempted as I was to look up, I kept my eyes fixed on the ground.

 _What more do you have to take from me, bitch?_ I thought, smiling in spite of myself.

Then, to my horror, I heard a response, an internal response:

_“You are lost.”_

Her tone was flat and hollow. It was the kind of voice that never asked questions. Part of me didn’t want to answer her, but there was no use in being stubborn. Besides, my other, crazier side _longed_ to speak with her.

 _Yes, I’m lost,_ I answered her. **_Very_** _lost._

_“There is somewhere you need be.”_

_And how am I expected to know where that might be?_

_“You know too well. You cannot purge it from your thoughts. You hoped to dream of it. You yearn for it now as you abhorred it in life.”_

_Verona._

A pause. It was the right answer. That much I knew. But it made no sense.

_I can’t go back. You’ve made sure of that._

I felt her beckon to me.

_“Come with me.”_

_Why can’t you just snatch me the way you did to start with?_

There was no response. The wind howled, reinstating the cold, but it was distant now, insignificant.

_Why can’t you?_

_“You must come with me.”_

I knew I did. Yet, the mere possibility of resistance intrigued me.

_And if I don’t?_

It sounded childish, yes, maybe even a little bratty, but I wanted to test her, to know how long I could hold out. I was face to face with Death for the second time and now, the thief had nothing left to steal. Without the blackmail of my life, her formidability was greatly diminished. What was more, both of us knew it.

_“You shall remain here until you come with me.”_

Alright, I wasn’t quite an equal rival with Death, but there was no shame in that. I wasn’t exactly in a position to be overambitious.

_You’ll take me back? I don’t believe resurrection is part of your job…_

_“You shall come with me just as you shall return with me. Then, you may know what is meant to be revealed.”_

There was no use in questioning her further. The bitch wasn’t going to tell me anything more now, but she would if I followed her back, and I was starving for answers.

_Take me._

The thought had barely formed in my mind before Death dragged me away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say that the inclusion of Death as a character is one of my favorite parts of the musical, especially during the duel/Mercutio's death scene. If anyone has not seen these scenes, I highly recommend them. I don't do everything justice in this fan fiction, but ah well, I tried...
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated. I'm always looking to improve my writing. It's very helpful to know what's working and what isn't.


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